


Panic Attacks

by PericulaLudus



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Post Savoy, Pre-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-05 09:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15860721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: The sole survivor of the Savoy massacre arrives back at the garrison, but the trauma lingers.





	1. Chapter 1

Tréville was grey. Not just his travel-stained cloak, but his hair, his beard, his face. Everything about him was grey, colourless and aged. Porthos stood in the back row, the recruits naturally finding their spaces behind the commissioned musketeers as they welcomed their captain back to the garrison. He couldn’t see Tréville’s face well enough to be certain, but judging by the captain’s slumped shoulders, Porthos imagined there’d be new and deeper lines on his face.

With Tréville came a carriage and behind the carriage rode the five musketeers called to help the captain in Savoy. They looked tired too. They herded a small group of horses. Porthos was glad to be as far away from the stomping, snorting animals as the courtyard allowed. There was a collective intake of breath as the meaning of those horses sank in. They had lost their riders. The garrison had lost musketeers. There seemed to be so many horses. So many dead men. To Porthos the horses were all the same, all big and black. He couldn’t tell them apart, but around him men started to whisper names.

Tréville nodded jerkily at his assembled regiment, but did not speak. Porthos understood. There was nothing to be said. They knew everything from his message. All massacred by the Spanish, only one survivor. They had sworn revenge as soon as that short letter had been read out to the garrison, but their anger was soon squashed by the weight of their loss. So many men had been lost.The days since had been solemn, the sadness only broken when frayed tempers flared.

When Tréville stepped towards the carriage, the recruit standing next to Porthos started to whisper a fervent prayer. Porthos knew that Meunier’s best friend had been at Savoy. Like Meunier, most hoped that sole survivor was a specific musketeer. With the danger of letters being intercepted, names were never committed to paper. That had left every man a shred of hope that their friend, their roommate, their brother might have survived. Porthos was no exception.

Men shifted and craned their necks as Tréville turned around. The man-sized bundle in his arms was wrapped in numerous blankets despite the warm spring air. Porthos tried to assess the bundle. Laurent was a tall man, slighter than him, but about the same height. As this man seemed to be. Porthos’ heart jumped in his chest. He clutched his little pendant of Saint Jude. He promised the Lord to attend church every Sunday without fail if only the survivor was Laurent.

A hand dropped out of the blankets. A pale hand. Porthos’ chest seized up.

It wasn’t Laurent.

His mind went through a hundred thoughts at once. He had known, of course, that the likelihood of the survivor being Laurent was small, but to see his hope ruined so quickly… What would it mean for the future? Laurent had been a respected musketeer, in charge of the garrison’s armoury, trusted by the captain and the men. And he had been a black musketeer.

Porthos gnawed on his lip. He had always been the only black man in his infantry regiment and being here with Laurent… it had been different. A friend, a mentor, an example of what he could achieve if only he worked hard enough. His stomach twisted into a knot. With Laurent by his side he had felt… safe somehow. And now? Now he was the only one. Past taunts echoed in his brain. Was there still a space here for a black recruit?

Porthos shook his head to keep himself from going down paths he might never have to tread. The men around him were similarly agitated. The figure in Tréville’s arms, the arm hanging towards the ground, seemed so limp they all feared the man had died on the road. Tréville said something that Porthos was too far away to hear, but soon his words were repeated from one mouth to the other.

“He lives. It’s Aramis.”

Aramis.

Of all the musketeers, it had to be that arrogant sod.

Porthos grimaced, then quickly composed his features. Of course, it was good that Aramis had survived, that anyone at all had lived. But looking around, Porthos saw he wasn’t the only one unhappy with the identity of the survivor. Aramis was certainly the best shot in the regiment, but he was also the best at shouting about his accomplishments. He was respected and all, but had always been closest to Marsac.

They watched Tréville climb the stairs and carry Aramis towards the room the musketeer used to share with Marsac. Within moments, the eagerly awaited survivor had disappeared from sight. The captain gave strict instructions that Aramis was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. He needed rest. For the rest of the day, the only sign of Aramis’ presence was the hurriedly summoned physician being shown to the room by Tréville himself.

That night the other recruits Porthos shared a room with stayed awake long after dark, talking about the events of the day. They didn’t ask him for his opinion and Porthos didn’t offer it. His mind dwelled on thoughts of Laurent, less concerned with the wider politics of it all. He clutched Saint Jude and buried his face in his pillows so nobody could mock his tears as he tried and failed to pray. He fell asleep listening to his companions speculating about how the Spanish had managed to best the musketeers and plotting their revenge.

“We’re under attack!”

Porthos’ eyes flew open at the shout. He scrambled for his weapons and ran outside wearing nothing but his braies, followed by his roommates. In the courtyard, they joined other men, some in their shirtsleeves, almost all barefoot, but every one of them armed and scanning the garrison for intruders.

They could all hear the screams, loud and long and terrible. A man in agony. Porthos was among the first to locate their source. Taking two, three steps at a time, he bolted up the stairs, then raced along the balcony towards Aramis’ and Marsac’s room.

“Stop!”

Porthos bumped into the man in front of him and was jostled from behind as they all came to a halt. Facing them was the tall figure of Bernard.

“What’s going on?” somebody shouted from the back. The screaming continued.

Bernard sighed and brushed his fingers through his long blond hair. He had been one of the men sent to Savoy and in the dim light he looked to have aged as much as the captain.

“It’s Aramis,” he said.

That got the men talking.

“What are they doing to him?”

“Who’s doing it?”

“It’s the Spanish, I say.”

“How would they get in?”

“They want to finish him off…”

Everyone had a question, an opinion.

Bernard shook his head and held up a hand to stop the clamour. “He has… dreams,” he said.

That silenced the men. Aramis was still howling in pain.

“Dreams… like that?” someone asked.

Bernard nodded miserably. “It’s Savoy. He sees… things…” he broke off. “The captain is with him now. Please…”

He gestured for them to retreat and slowly ushered the grumbling men back down the stairs. The majority of them took up a vigil in the courtyard, listening to their tortured comrade’s screams. The captain’s presence seemed to do Aramis no good at all, as far as Porthos was concerned. Certainly explained Tréville’s tiredness though.

Porthos knew battle dreams, of course. In the garrison, there were a few experienced soldiers who would wake up screaming in the night, remembering some experience from long ago. Many, like Porthos, had also seen it happen in the field with their previous regiments. But this… this was extreme. Aramis never seemed to wake from the horror, never understood that he was safe now. If what happened down there in Savoy could make a man scream like that… it was a horrifying thought.

It didn’t get any better. Over the following days, an endless stream of physicians visited Aramis, but none of them had a cure. The screaming continued night after night, only subsiding when Aramis’ voice broke.

Porthos, once he knew there was no imminent danger, slept soundly. Others started to spend their nights elsewhere and those who remained in the garrison became tetchy with lack of sleep.

Tréville continued to sit with Aramis every night, which made no difference to the screaming, but seemed to give the captain something to do for his injured musketeer. It was clear to Porthos that Tréville was desperate to do anything he could to help Aramis recover. As always, Aramis was the centre of attention. Serge bringing him his meals three times a day, Tréville summoning every doctor in Paris, and the whole garrison constantly reminded of his struggles despite never seeing him once.

By day, Tréville worked hard to fix the other ramifications of Savoy. He spent endless hours at court, in conference with the King and Cardinal, plotting their revenge on the Spanish.  When he was at the garrison, he undertook a relentless recruitment drive to boost the numbers of the regiment after their great loss.

This concerned Porthos. Every day, young, talented men joined the musketeers. White men. And while Tréville had never made him feel any less because of the colour of his skin, Porthos knew that others felt differently, even among the musketeers. He had never expected to be accepted into the garrison, but now that he was a recruit, he wanted that commission. And he saw his chances of receiving it slipping away with each new recruit.

Porthos was in an awkward position, not one of the new recruits, but not one of the established men either. He had been the last to join the regiment before Savoy. He was not required in the basic training sessions, but he was not yet qualified for all duties either. With Laurent dead and Tréville otherwise occupied, there was little guidance on what he should be doing.

As a result, Porthos spent much of his time in the armoury. He wanted to contribute something to the garrison. The atmosphere was one of defiance. They kept the garrison running to show the Spanish and anyone else who doubted them that they weren’t so easily cowed. They were hurting, but still fighting. Every man was doing his part to prove that. Porthos did his in the armoury. This had been Laurent’s domain. Despite his death,  the room still felt familiar, comfortable. Porthos took pride in polishing weapons and making everything look perfect as a tribute to Laurent, but it did not fix his problems.

He was hidden away, men stepping in and out of the room when they needed something, but rarely lingering to talk to him, to take note of what he was doing. Any hope that Tréville might notice his efforts, might even praise him for them, was in vain. All the captain cared about were politics, the new recruits, and Aramis.

After a week, Aramis was still screaming for hours every night and life in the garrison revolved solely around him. Porthos had no idea why.

Of course, Savoy had been bad, but bad things happened. That was the life of a soldier. Soldiers saw blood and death all the time. He himself had been at Montpellier in ’22 when sickness ravaged the royal camp. As men died all around him, he’d cared for them and buried them. He’d piled emaciated bodies into mass graves  hurriedly dug into the muddy ground. It had not been pretty, but he had made it through. Before that, he had seen many things as a child of the court, but no one heard him scream about it.

Even now, he saw so many men suffer in the aftermath of Savoy. Best friends had been lost, brothers buried far from home, leaving no space to mourn. Porthos watched men grieve every day and hid his own tears in his pillow or the dim light of the armoury. He suspected others found similar spaces for theirs. None of them made a show of their grief, none of them neglected their duties. Aramis did not have a monopoly on pain. But it was rather typical for him to wallow in it.

Porthos was not the only one to think so. While he was sitting in the mess hall, enjoying the rich stew Serge had served for dinner, he heard three of the older musketeers joke about the situation.

“You seeing the gorgeous Georgette today?”

“You bet I am. If I’m lucky, she’ll let me stay the night.”

“You paying Clotilde a visit, Eugène?”

“I wish. Guard duty at the gate for me.”

His mates winched in sympathy.

“Your ears’ll be ringing by morning.”

“As will mine. I’ll have Georgette screaming all night.”

They laughed and patted the speaker on the back.

“Good on you, Leblanc.”

“Old fox’s still got it. I know how to pleasure a lady.”

“Be nicer than listening to him, that’s for sure.”

“At least she’ll have a reason to scream. Not like him.”

 “Oh oh oh, I’m so afraid of my pillow!”

They guffawed at that.

“Brings shame on the regiment, he does.”

“He’s an embarrassment, for sure.”

“Wouldn’t have happened if that had been Lazare.”

“Or Martin.”

“Even little Gilles.”

“But no, had to be him. Thinks he’s a man just because he can shoot.”

“Showing his true colours now. Coward.”

They reached the front of the queue and received their bowls of stew.

“What’s that?” Leblanc asked. “You skimping on us, Serge?”

“Yeah, my bowl’s half empty,” Eugène added. “And where’s my bread?”

“You’ll get your food when you hold your damn tongues,” the old cook replied.

“What, now? When have I ever said anything bad about your cooking?”

“Not my cooking, I’m worried about,” Serge growled.

“Give us our food then. How’s a man supposed to keep up strength on half rations?”

Serge drew himself up to his full height. “You be glad I’m feeding you lot at all. What you said ‘bout Aramis, the captain’d have you whipped.”

“You threatening us, old man?”

Serge gripped his ladle tighter and glared at Leblanc. “I’ll threaten you alright if I ever hear that sort of talk again.”

“What? We said nothing that’s not true. He’s making us the laughing stock of Paris. A musketeer, scared by night terrors, pah!”

“That’s no way to speak of an injured brother.”

“Injured, is he? Seems to me he’s just insane.”

“Out!” Serge shouted. “Get out of my sight, you!”

Silence had fallen and men shifted uncomfortably on their seats. They all liked and respected Serge. Porthos found it telling that nobody had gotten up to defend him in this. They would not say it in so many words, but many probably agreed, at least in parts. Porthos certainly did.

Eugène turned to look around the room before leaving with his friends. “Ask yourself though,” he said to the men. “How come he survived? Him with his Spanish and all…”

There was some low mumbling when the door closed behind them, but nobody spoke up for or against Aramis. Porthos frowned. He couldn’t believe that anyone honestly thought Aramis was in with the Spanish, but who was he to know? None of them had seen Aramis since he arrived.

They finished their meal quickly and in silence and when Porthos looked up again, he found he was the only one left in the room, morosely dabbing at the last of his stew. He cleared some abandoned bowls from the tables and returned them to Serge along with his own. Usually, the old man would mutter about how he didn’t have to do that, but he barely seemed to notice Porthos.

Porthos lingered, unsure of what to do. He felt for Serge, noting how tired and strung out he looked. The argument seemed to have taken its toll. Porthos felt bad for not stepping in. Not that he had any authority to do so. He was just a recruit. His presence was often enough to end a fight, but among the musketeers, nobody would be afraid to put him in his place. There wasn’t much he could have done.

Serge slowly poured a mug of weak ale, a small cup of red wine, and then turned to the large pot, rooting around it with the ladle.

“The beef’d be good for him. Get his strength back,” the old cook murmured. “Can’t really chew though. Don’t think he knows how.”

“Is he…” Porthos paused. “Is there any improvement?”

Serge shrugged. “I’m no learned man, lad, not one of them doctors.”

“You see him every day, though.”                                                                         

“Whole lotta good that does him.” Serge put a spoon into the bowl and sighed. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and Porthos noticed he’d been crying.

“Is there anything…” Porthos left the question hanging, unsure what he was suggesting.

“He ain’t eating. Ain’t sleeping,” Serge said. “Every time I go up there, I’m afraid he’s died.”

Serge let his head hang, shoulders hunched. Porthos took the bowl of stew from his hands. “Let me. Think you need a rest tonight.”

Serge blinked at him through renewed tears. “You sure, lad?”

“Sure,” Porthos said and shrugged. Wasn’t like he’d be serving dinner to the king. Injured or not, Aramis was still a musketeer. And for all that he wasn’t sure about going into the room of the madman, he knew Tréville would hear of this. At this point, any way to be noticed by Tréville sounded good to him.

“Don’t think I should,” Serge said.

“I’ll be fine,” Porthos assured him

Serge scratched his neck. “Suspect you can’t be worse than me now...”

He nodded his head, having reached that conclusion, and handed Porthos the drinks as well. With Serge’s best wishes and reminders to go slow in his ears, Porthos entered Aramis’ and Marsac’s room. He had never been there before. Musketeers certainly had more space to themselves than recruits. Besides the two beds and the chests for their belongings, the room contained a table and two chairs, now laden with what Porthos guessed were medicines and potions. The room even had a small fireplace and on the mantlepiece there was a collection of trinkets and five books. Porthos snorted. Trust those two to have a library like they were noblemen.

Aramis lay flat on his back, wrapped in several blankets. He gave no indication that he had heard Porthos enter, just lay motionless, eyes staring at the ceiling. It made Porthos feel odd, like he was at a dead man’s wake.

He cleared his throat. “Evening,” he said. “Just bringing your dinner.”

He figured that should be enough. No need to give a sermon. It was all pretty simple. Aramis got his food, Serge got to calm down, Tréville got a reminder about Porthos, and Porthos got his commission.

When Aramis still didn’t react, Porthos hovered uncertainly by the door. He didn’t have all night and that stew would be stone cold by the time Aramis deigned to acknowledge him.  He mentally braced himself for the unearthly screaming and took a tentative step forward.

No screaming. But no sign of recognition either.

 “It’s me, Porthos,” he added when there was no reaction. “Serge sent me.”

Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to come in here. Maybe Aramis’ befuddled mind would think he was an attacker. Porthos looked at him intently. He couldn’t see any of his body in between the pile of blankets, but he could see his face. An angry red scar snaked from the forehead into his hairline. Undoubtedly, Aramis would come up with some heroic tale about it that would have even more women fall at his feet. Not that he currently had any of his handsomeness. His long hair had been shorn, probably to treat the head wound, and was growing back in irregular little tufts of black stubble. With his bald head, Aramis reminded Porthos of a young bird fallen from the nest. The dark eyes were huge in the sunken face. He seemed utterly forlorn.

Once again, Porthos cleared his throat significantly, then he walked across the room to set the food and drinks down on a low stool close to Aramis’ bed. The musketeer was still staring at the ceiling. He didn’t even blink.

Porthos was starting to get nervous. If Aramis, the stupid git, had picked that very moment to die, Porthos’ career with the musketeers would be over before it had even begun.

“Don’t you do this to me,” he murmured, sitting down on the edge of the bed and rooting around the blankets for Aramis’ wrist to feel for a pulse. “Not going to make me tell the captain you died on my watch.”

He finally found an arm. Positioning his fingers, he looked up and found Aramis’ eyes tracking his movement.

“So you are alive!” He dropped the hand and it flopped weakly onto his leg. “What’s that all about?”

He felt for a pulse after all. It was undeniably there, but felt pretty weak to him.

“Right then,” Porthos said. “You want your stew?”

He was somewhat reassured knowing that Aramis hadn’t just croaked, but there was something unnerving about this living corpse he had become. Porthos almost missed his endless teasing and boasting.

He took a deep breath. He could manage a silent Aramis. It could be considered an improvement. A few weeks ago he would have done stable duty for a month to be given such a gift. He’d get him to eat his stew and then Tréville would be happy. It was only a matter of minutes.

“Let’s get you sitting up then,” he said, not entirely sure why he felt the need to comment on his every move.

He hoisted Aramis up by his shoulders and was taken aback by how little he seemed to weigh. Aramis had always been a lean man, but now he was skeletal. Leaning him against his shoulder, Porthos could feel his ribs. He positioned the bowl of stew on his thigh and tried to get Aramis to take the spoon. Aramis let him manipulate his body like a puppet, but wouldn’t move on his own account.

“Right,” Porthos said, biting his lip. “I hope you don’t mind if I… It’s only… I really think you should eat.”

There was no protest from the other man and Porthos decided to take that as approval. Shifting further onto the bed, he draped one arm around Aramis’ waist, steadying both him and the bowl. With his other hand, he slowly lifted the spoon.

“It’s beef stew,” he said. “And potatoes and onions and probably some other things that Serge found at the market. It’s pretty good.”

There was no reply, but at least Aramis opened his mouth and swallowed obediently.

“It’s not too hot, is it?” Porthos asked. He’d only ever fed babies and for those you had to be real careful they didn’t burn themselves. On further reflection, he figured Aramis was probably fine.

After a few mouthfuls of stew, Porthos gave Aramis a sip of ale. That went less smoothly. Aramis seemed unable to drink properly from the mug and much of the liquid dribbled down his beard. Porthos dabbed at it with the corner of a blanket. Aramis’ usually neatly trimmed beard was overgrown and bushy. Silent, pliant, and dishevelled, this man really bore no resemblance to the Aramis he knew. Seeing him drove home the terrible reality of the Spanish attack. A proud musketeer had been reduced to this and all those others killed outright. It was outrageous to see the regiment and by extension France itself. As for Aramis… no man should be reduced to this.

Settling back into their feeding routine, Porthos told himself to calm down. This would all be terribly sad if Aramis had been a friend. But truly, Porthos didn’t care about him. He was here for Tréville’s sake. He’d get some stew into the man and then he’d hope Serge would tell the captain and that the captain would appreciate his efforts. Maybe, if he stayed here long enough, Tréville might even find him in the room. The captain usually came to sit with Aramis after his tasks for the day were done.

They made slow, but steady progress through the bowl of stew. Porthos kept shifting Aramis’ body against his, trying to find the most comfortable position for them both. He didn’t usually mind silence, but he figured it would be awkward for Aramis to be so helpless, to be fed like a babe, and to make the situation a little less strange, he started to talk. At first, he spoke about his work in the armoury, but then thought that talk of weapons was maybe not the best for a man suffering from battle dreams.

“I’ve got a girl, you know,” he said. “Most beautiful woman in the world.”

Aramis obediently swallowed another spoon full of stew.

“Long blonde hair. She says it’s like straw but I tell her it’s gold. She’s smart, my girl. Just laughs at me, says it’s lies. It isn’t. Not to me anyways.”

More stew followed and another ill-fated attempt at the ale.

“Known her since we were small. Used to run together, us and another boy,” Porthos continued his tale. “We were some right terrors. But good friends, all of us. Stuck together and made it through. And my girl, she’s still making it now.”

Never mentioning names, or indeed the location, Porthos told Aramis about his childhood at the court. The nice bits at least, the friendship and the fun they’d had.

“I’ll go back one day,” he concluded. “When I’m a musketeer I’ll go and buy her a great big house. She’d like that. Maybe buy her a nice little shop, a little tavern maybe. She’d be good with that. Always had a knack with people, my girl. And then I’ll ask her to marry me. All good and proper in a church and all. We’ll make a fine couple, us two.”

Porthos wasn’t used to hearing so much of his own voice, but found he didn’t really mind. It had been a long time indeed since he’d had such a captive audience. Not since the court maybe, when they were all still kids and at night he’d tell stories to Charon and Flea.

Once they were done with the stew, Porthos paused. He wasn’t sure any of the ale had actually reached its destination, so he hesitated with the wine. Eventually, he wiped the spoon on his shirt and poured a drop of wine onto it. Aramis grimaced at first, clearly not expecting the taste, but then he swallowed. It was slower than drinking, but sip after sip Porthos managed to make him take the wine.

“That’s better,” he said, fondly stroking Aramis’ shorn head. He caught himself quickly and stopped, feeling ridiculous. The man was a musketeer, not a cat to be petted.

“Right then,” Porthos said. “I better… you probably want to be left alone now…”

He waited for some sign that Aramis did or didn’t want him to leave. It felt odd to make that decision himself. On the one hand he felt like he could not leave him alone, on the other hand there was nothing left for him to do here.

In the end, the latter sentiment won out. There was no telling how long Tréville would be and he could hardly sit here with his arms around another man for the rest of the night. Plus, there was the matter of the screaming. The sun was setting and as soon as it was dark, all bets would be off with Aramis’ dreams. And Porthos did not want to be accused of making it worse in whatever way.

He made sure Aramis’ face was clean and laid him back down, adjusting the pillow and blankets multiple times to make him as comfortable as possible. Then he took a step back to admire his handiwork.

Aramis whimpered.

Porthos froze. Maybe that whimper was the start of the screaming. Or maybe Aramis was in pain. Pain that Porthos had inadvertently caused. Maybe he had fed him too much? Serge had said he didn’t usually eat… Either way, it seemed about time to beat a hasty retreat.

“Goodnight,” he mumbled, gathered Serge’s things and made for the door.

Outside he hesitated, thought about going back in, then shook his head. The captain would be along shortly. He’d know better if Aramis needed anything. He’d also know if Porthos had… He hadn’t done anything wrong, damn it. He’d fed Aramis what Serge gave him, that was all. Porthos nodded his head, confirming to himself that he was right to leave.

“How’d it go?” Serge asked as soon as Porthos stepped into the kitchen.

Porthos shrugged and put down the bowl and cups. “Slow. Didn’t drink much of the ale.”

Serge peered suspiciously at the empty bowl. “Did you eat that?” he asked.

“What? I had my dinner.”

Serge eyed him critically. “Big lad like you… I know you lot…”

“Listen,” Porthos said. “You don’t find me saying no to food, but I don’t take it from the mouth of a man who needs it like that.”

He shook his head. He was certainly not above stealing food, but to be accused like that…

Serge stared at the bowl again. “He don’t eat that much. Never more than a few bites.”

Porthos snorted. “Explains the weight, then. That man’s near starved.”

Serge seemed close to tears again when he looked up. “He won’t eat,” he said plaintively.

Porthos swallowed his anger at the previous accusation and put a hand on the cook’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “He did tonight. Drank the wine as well.”

Serge sniffed. “Thank you, lad.”

Porthos nodded. “S’alright.”

He wasn’t so sure that night when the screaming started. Nothing seemed alright then. Did it sound more anguished than usual? Should he have alerted Serge or the captain to Aramis’ whimper? There was no telling now. At least as long as Aramis screamed, he was alive. Whatever it was, at least he hadn’t killed the guy.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning at muster, Porthos tried to scan Tréville’s face for clues, but the captain was as inscrutable as ever. Orders were issued to various small groups of musketeers, duties divvied up between the men, and a schedule announced for the new recruits’ training that day. As so often, Porthos was left to find his own tasks. He turned to help Serge clean up after breakfast, reckoning he could ask the cook about Aramis.

The captain’s voice stopped him. “Porthos! My office. Now.”

Porthos frantically tried to swallow down the rapidly rising panic. He’d done it all wrong and Tréville knew. He went over every moment of the previous evening, every movement, every word. What had he done, what had he said? The screaming last night… He’d been right, it _had_ sounded worse than before. He had messed up royally.

He bit down firmly on his lip. No. He had done everything to the best of his ability. Of course he had left at the end. He had fed Aramis and that was his duty done. He would not feel guilty for doing Serge a favour. And Serge had been happy enough with him. He had no reason to be ashamed. He would take whatever the captain had to say on the chin, but he would not put himself down.

Tréville was standing behind his desk when Porthos entered his office.

“Close the door,” the captain said. Porthos swallowed hard. This was a private matter then.

He stood at attention, silently watching the captain pace. Waiting, speaking only when spoken to. He had learned that in the infantry. Tréville was a kinder commanding officer than any he had known before, but Porthos did not see that as an invitation to be overly familiar with him. He had not been in the office since the day Tréville has signed him up as a recruit. Since then he’d faded into obscurity. Keeping a low profile, another lesson he’d learned in the infantry. Too low, this time, at least if he was ever going to get his commission. But better not to be noticed than to be thrown out of the regiment.

And now… It would be very unfair for Tréville to send him away. Whatever he had done, he hadn’t known any better. He had been trying to help and it wasn’t fair to punish him for that. But if he had learned one thing over the years it was that life was very rarely fair.

“You fed Aramis last night?” Tréville asked.

“Yes, captain.”

“He ate everything?”

“Yes, captain.”

“Serge tells me you spent a good hour with him.”

“I don’t know, captain,” Porthos answered honestly.

Tréville scrubbed a hand over his face. “He hasn’t been eating. That whole time… if we can get three, four spoons full of gruel or broth into him, it’s a good day.”

Porthos nodded. “He might be getting better, sir.”

Tréville sighed heavily. “We live in hope.”

Porthos had nothing to say to that. He tried very hard not to shift uncomfortably in the ensuing silence. Tréville didn’t seem angry or indeed terribly likely to send him away, but Porthos wasn’t taking any chances. He had wanted Tréville’s attention, but now that he had it, he wasn’t sure what to do with it. He was relieved when Tréville finally spoke again.

“I’m going to ask you a favour, Porthos. I want you to understand that your reply will have no bearing on your position within the regiment. I ask you to consider your decision carefully and not commit to anything you don’t want to do. This is in no way part of your duties as a recruit.”

“Yes, captain,” Porthos replied.

Tréville scratched his beard. “I’m sorry to ask this of you. You have every right to say no. In fact you probably… It is entirely my responsibility.”

Porthos had never seen the captain so flustered. “I understand,” he said.

Tréville drew in a deep breath. “You are the only one who has been able to make him eat. Would you take over giving Aramis his meals?”

After that long preamble, the request was hardly a surprise and it took Porthos only a brief moment to consider it. No bearing on his position within the regiment. Porthos was willing to bet his right arm that that was nothing but a nice sentiment. If he said no, he had no place in the regiment.

This was his moment to make or break his career. He’d always expected it to be a moment of courage in battle, of saving Tréville’s life maybe, or the King’s. Not a matter of feeding an infant. But he wasn’t picky about his chances. Tréville was focused on Aramis so if Porthos was around Aramis when nobody else was… There was no question here, not really, and he suspected that for all his nice words, Tréville knew that, too. As long as Aramis didn’t die on his watch, Porthos would have his career made for him without a single cut or bruise, without ever having to mount a horse.

“Of course,” Porthos said and that sealed it.

Three times a day from then on, Porthos got food and drink from Serge, made sure Aramis finished both, and confirmed he was still breathing by the end of it. It wasn’t the most exciting of routines, but Porthos had certainly had worse. At least this didn’t involve horses.

Every morning, Porthos was the first man in Serge’s kitchen. He hared up the stairs as quickly as a well-filled bowl of gruel would allow, and usually arrived when the captain was putting on his uniform. Most importantly, he was the first man to speak to Tréville each day. There wasn’t much to say as one night with Aramis was as bad as the next and Tréville had the exhaustion to prove it. Nevertheless, he always thanked Porthos. And that, in Porthos’ eyes, was definitely a step towards the captain recommending him to the King for a commission.

It was all a bit odd. He grew tired of his endless monologue. He told Aramis more about Flea than he ever knew he remembered. He provided him with a detailed account of his favourite taverns and their regulars. He even explained several of his card tricks. Sometimes he strayed into talk of the garrison, but that was usually when Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and started to shift uneasily, so he stopped quickly. Aramis still weighed next to nothing and showed precious few signs of life, so Porthos wasn’t sure his frequent visits were doing him any good. The least he could do was not to make him uncomfortable with his talk.

At lunch time on the fourth day, Porthos was particularly lost for anything to say. He had put Aramis back down for a moment after a vicious coughing fit had visibly exhausted him. It happened sometimes when even swallowing seemed to be beyond him. Porthos felt distinctly uncomfortable looking at the man lying there, trying to catch his breath. The cough had brought tears to his eyes and it felt wrong to stare and make a spectacle of that.

Eyes darting around the room, he searched for something, anything, to capture his attention and give him something to talk about. There wasn’t much. The bottles of tonics and various physician’s tools had disappeared because Aramis refused to take anything vaguely medicinal and Tréville refused to let him be bled. Marsac’s old bed at the opposite wall was where the captain now slept. He left it neatly made and immaculate each day. The books were still on the mantlepiece. Porthos recognised the Bible. The other books seemed no more likely to be comprehensible. They were fancy books. He said as much to Aramis who was still wheezing.

Finally, he saw something that actually captured his interest. Hung over the back of a chair was Aramis’ pauldron. He’d never seen one cast off like that. The musketeers were never without them. Nobody left theirs lying about. His fingers brushed the dark, almost black leather. It was rough. He carefully picked the pauldron up, holding his breath when he had it in his hands. It wasn’t heavy, but it felt so significant. In multiple places, the elaborate pattern was notched and cut. Porthos traced the crosses and the fleur-de-lis he wanted to wear so much.

Aramis made a choked noise and Porthos wheeled around, pauldron still in hand. He’d thought laying him back down to recover had been the best thing to do, but if it made him choke… That would not help him get his hands onto a pauldron of his very own.

Aramis looked straight at him, which was still a rarity.

“Please,” he whispered.

Porthos knelt next to the bed, eyes frantically scanning the man on the bed.

“What do you need?” he asked, finding nothing amiss.

“Please,” Aramis repeated, stretching out a bony arm, pointing at Porthos… pointing at the pauldron he still held.

“You want this?”

“Please.”

Porthos handed it to him. Aramis’ fingers immediately closed around it, nails digging deep into the leather. His breath was fast and shallow, but he did not look panicked. Porthos just sat on the floor and watched him. There was something beautiful about the scene. The musketeer and his pauldron, finally reunited.

After a while, Aramis loosened his grip and started to unsteadily trace the outline of the leather, to run his fingers along the straps and buckles. His breath hitched a few times when his nails caught on particularly deep cuts. He tried to lift the pauldron from his stomach, but his arms shook with the effort. He ended up dropping the leather straight onto his face. Porthos gently shifted it so it rested on his chest.

Aramis looked at him. “Thank you.”

Porthos smiled. “So you _can_ speak.”

Aramis jerked, suddenly alarmed.

“Hey,” Porthos said softly. “You’re alright.”

He reached out a hand and ran his finger over the fleur-de-lis. “It’s beautiful,” he said.

He gave Aramis a few minutes before he reminded him that he hadn’t finished his lunch yet. Aramis sighed. Porthos smirked.

“Come on,” he said. “You eat up now and I’ll see if I can find some wax for this. It’s looking pretty rough. We can clean it tonight.”

The look on Aramis’ face was unreadable, but eventually he nodded, so that’s what they did that night. Porthos brought a brush, a basin of water, and several cloths to clean the pauldron before conditioning it. He left Aramis leaning against some pillows so he was half sitting up in bed. He brushed off the worst of the dirt, then dumped the pauldron onto Aramis’ stomach and handed him a wet rag.

Aramis looked at him.

Porthos nodded. “Go for it.”

Aramis took a deep, steadying breath, before tightening his grip on the cloth. He swiped it across a speck of dirt.

“Give it a bit more,” Porthos encouraged. “We want your pauldron nice and shiny.”

Aramis gritted his teeth and applied a bit more pressure. Porthos grinned broadly. It took some time, but eventually Aramis leaned back onto the pillows, a dirty cloth and clean pauldron in his limp hands. He was breathing heavily.

“Good one,” Porthos said and smiled at him.

Aramis frowned.

“None of that,” Porthos said and took the rag from him. “Don’t go rushing yourself.”

Aramis grunted.

Porthos lifted an eyebrow. “What was that?”

Aramis shook his head.

“Honestly, you’ve got to take it easy. You’ve been out for a while.”

Aramis frowned and squeezed his eyes shut. Porthos grimaced. It was so easy to make Aramis feel worse, but nothing he did seemed to make him any better.

“Right,” Porthos said. “Let’s get this done.”

He grabbed the pauldron and the small pot of leather cream he had borrowed from the stables. He settled down on the floor, leaning his back against the bed, and making sure that Aramis could watch his every move over his shoulder.

“I like this, you know,” Porthos said, massaging the cream into the leather. “It’s nice to make it look good. Feels good as well. And smells good.”

He held up the pot for Aramis to get a whiff of the beeswax and oils.

“I clean a lot of tack,” he continued. “Nobody really wants to do it. Even when they’re on stable duty, they’d rather muck about with the horses.”

He shook his head. He’d never understand that. “So I let them do that and I do the tack. Clean it, polish it. Tack’s better than horses any day.”

He continued like that. There was no sound from Aramis and Porthos wondered if he had fallen asleep. It still felt odd to supervise a grown man like a child.

“There we go,” he finally said, holding out the gleaming pauldron for Aramis’ inspection. When he turned around, Aramis gave him an odd look that Porthos interpreted as a smile that couldn’t quite make its way to his face. He grinned in response, trying to express joy for both of them.

“Let me know if I missed a bit,” he said and reverently laid the pauldron onto Aramis’ blankets.

Aramis seemed almost shy when he reached for it. His hands were shaking wildly. The tension was palpable. It was touching how much his pauldron meant to the musketeer.

“I’d like one of my own one day,” Porthos said. “A pauldron, a commission. Be a real musketeer.”

He trailed his fingers along one of the straps and sighed. “One day, maybe.”

He looked up at Aramis, but the musketeer paid him no heed, still staring at his pauldron. Porthos waited. He meant what he’d said earlier, that Aramis shouldn’t rush himself.  And he was good at waiting. But eventually, his patience wore thin. He’d expected some reply, a nod, a smile, anything, but clearly Aramis wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction.

“Right,” Porthos said and got to his feet. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He gathered the empty dishes and discarded cleaning utensils, then looked around the room for anything to clean or clear or straighten. He wanted Tréville to come back to as welcoming a room as possible. There wasn’t anything he could do about the state Aramis was in, but he could help with other things.

When everything was in order, he nodded to Aramis. “You take care now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

With one last smile, he headed for the door.

“Stay.”

Aramis’ voice was soft, but clear.

“You want me to stay?” Porthos asked.

Aramis ducked his head. “Please.”

“Of course.”

Porthos put down the various items and pulled up a chair next to the bed. Aramis turned his head away, staring at the wall. Porthos frowned. For somebody who had just requested his company, Aramis seemed decidedly disinterested. He couldn’t read the guy.

He sighed.

“Right. Shall we do your boots then? Same procedure? I brush, you clean, then I wax?”

“No.”

“Come on Aramis, we got to do something. I can’t just sit here doing nothing.”

Aramis’ only reply was one of the odd choked noises he made sometimes.

Porthos grabbed the boots anyways. He brushed most of the dirt off before dumping them into Aramis’ lap. Aramis jumped so much, Porthos would have thought he had been asleep, if his eyes had not been following his every movement.

“Come on,” he said, trying to force a fresh rag into Aramis’ hand. “Get them cleaned up and I’ll polish them.”

“No,” Aramis pressed out between gritted teeth.

“You got to do something.”

“No.”

“Just clean your damn boots.” Porthos was reaching the end of his patience now. He clearly wasn’t getting anywhere with this soft approach.

It seemed to work. Aramis gripped the cloth and sat up straighter. At least he was moving. And talking. Porthos guessed that was an improvement. He poured himself a cup of wine. He might as well since it didn’t seem like he’d see the tavern that night.

When he turned back to the bed, Aramis’s entire body had seized up as if in a cramp. His shoulders were drawn up, back bowed, his fingers curved into claws. And everything was shaking. Aramis tried to run the cloth over the boots, but it was clear he had no real control over his movements.

“Hey,” Porthos said, stepping towards him quickly. “Stop. Leave it, Aramis.”

“Got—to do—something.”

“Not like this.” Porthos put a hand on Aramis’ shoulder. The muscles were hard with tension. “Aramis, please.” He tried to put his other hand on Aramis’.

“No.” Aramis ground his teeth so loudly it made Porthos shiver.

“Aramis, you’re hurting yourself. Don’t. Please.”

“Yes.”

Porthos caught Aramis’ flailing arms in his hand.

“Aramis… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I should have listened. I thought… nonsense obviously.”

Aramis whimpered.

Porthos shushed him. “It’s alright. It’s alright now. I’ll take them away. I’ll take them away and we’ll lie you back down. Shh, it’s alright. It was my mistake.”

By the time Porthos had Aramis back to lying flat on the bed, Aramis had squeezed his eyes firmly shut. The cramp seemed to be easing, but he was still shaking like a tree in a storm.

Porthos put the pauldron carefully on the pillow next to Aramis’ head. Such a proud musketeer, brought so low. And Porthos only seemed to be making it worse.

He didn’t feel he could leave him, not like this. As long as Aramis didn’t tell him to go, he would stay. He sat back down on the floor next to the bed and took care of those boots. He hummed songs while he worked, cleaning, then polishing the supple leather. They were good boots and they certainly deserved some care, just like their owner.

He resisted the temptation to look at Aramis, giving him a little privacy. Only when both boots were shining, he held them up for Aramis’ approval. He did not expect a reply.

“Thank you,” Aramis breathed.

Porthos smiled at him. “All good now,” he said. “They’re ready for you.”

Aramis lowered his eyes.

“They’ll wait,” Porthos assured him. “Wait till you’re good and ready.”

Suddenly, the door burst open and Tréville ran into the room.

“What’s wrong? Is he…? What happened?”

The captain looked terrified.

Porthos stood up and blocked Tréville from getting any closer to the bed. He had seen Aramis’ eyes widen in a mad panic at the interruption.

“Nothing is wrong,” he said, holding out his hands. “He had a good day. Nothing happened.”

Belatedly, he remembered the cramp. It hadn’t all been plain sailing. But watching the captain’s response to his good news made him reconsider mentioning that. The effect was immediate. Tréville breathed deeply and Porthos could see the pieces of his usual stoic mask fall into place as he composed himself.

“Serge told me you had never come back after dinner. I… feared the worst.”

“We were cleaning Aramis’ pauldron,” Porthos said. “We talked.”

“You… talked.”

“It’s been a good day, sir.”

Tréville sighed.

“Thank you Porthos. I apologise for… my behaviour.”

Porthos took a step aside to let Tréville look at Aramis. The captain sighed again and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Up close, Porthos could see all those new lines on his face, as well as the black shadows under his swollen eyes. He gestured towards the chair and handed him the cup of wine he had poured earlier. The captain pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked utterly exhausted.

“Drink,” Porthos said.

Tréville massaged his temples and drank deeply.

“Thank you,” he said. He looked up and gave Porthos a sharp nod. “I feel much refreshed.”

Porthos grimaced. If Tréville was refreshed, Aramis was fighting fit.

“Sir,” he said slowly. “May I make a suggestion?”

Tréville nodded for him to go on.

“I had an easy day today. Let me take the night watch.”

“No, Porthos. That is my duty.”

“You made it mine to look after Aramis.” Which wasn’t strictly the truth, but close enough. “I want to do that tonight, captain.”

“That is very noble, Porthos, but not necessary.”

 “I believe it is, Sir.” Porthos bit his lip, aware that he was overstepping a line. “Aramis needs you well-rested. With respect, Sir, you’re not.”

“Porthos…” Tréville started, kneading his forehead.

“My duty is to the regiment. I’m happy to stay.”

Tréville frowned. He seemed torn. His eyes settled on the bed.

“Aramis…”

“Go,” Aramis said softly.

Tréville jumped. “He speaks! He hasn’t spoken since the day I found him.”

Porthos nodded. “He’s been speaking all day. We’ll be fine.”

The captain’s resolve began to falter.

“You have done enough for today,” Porthos said gently. “Go and rest.”

Tréville’s eyes flicked between Aramis and Porthos. “I should…”

“Please, sir. We’ll see you in the morning,” Porthos said.

Aramis gave him a small nod and with one last sigh, Tréville finally headed for the door.

“I’ll be in my office,” he said, turning back on the threshold. “If anything…”

Tréville’s eyes darted over to the bed. He dropped his voice. “If he says anything about Savoy… let me know.”

“Of course, sir,” Porthos replied. He thought that unlikely, but was touched by the captain's concern.

“I know where to find you.” Porthos nodded seriously. “And I promise I will.”

Porthos breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed behind their captain.

“Poor devil,” he said. “He’s blaming himself.”

Aramis frowned.

“Somehow thinks he should have known the Spanish would attack,” Porthos continued.

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut again. His clenched fists trembled on the blankets. He was still wrapped in what looked like every spare blanket in the garrison. He never complained, but Porthos figured he was cold, his mind still caught in the icy forests of Savoy.

Porthos shook his head. He’d better focus on the task at hand. Aramis looked no less tired than the captain. It had been quite the day for him.

Getting Aramis ready for bed was no hardship. Porthos did not mind that little service to an injured soldier and Aramis seemed to have accepted that any embarrassment was dwarfed by his immense need for assistance. His shaking continued. Even though it was no longer his whole body, his limbs were trembling, making even small tasks a daunting endeavour.

Porthos let Aramis relieve himself and washed his hands and face before settling him back into bed. He even opened the window to let in some of the cool night air before closing the shutters. He kept up his usual narrative throughout, but Aramis made no reply.

“You mind if I keep the light on for now?” Porthos asked, but Aramis had already closed his eyes. Porthos took the lack of protest as approval and took the lamp over to what used to be Marsac’s side of the room.

He knew that once he was asleep, he’d sleep soundly, and he didn’t want to miss any sign of distress from Aramis. He wondered if that thought, more than the screaming, was what kept the captain awake each night.

He had another look at the books on the mantlepiece and finally selected the slimmest one. He carefully set it down on the table and made sure to keep the wine far away from it. He knew how valuable books were. Opening it reverently, he found the name of its author, Jean Lemaire de Belges. He’d been to Belgium as part of his travels in the infantry. They were good people there and he would like to see what this Jean had to say about them.

There were three words in large, bold letters. He knew the first two. _La courrone_ , the crown. He was flummoxed by the third, _margaritique._ Probably something about the crown, but he had no idea what. Frowning, Porthos turned the pages. They had not made good use of the precious paper. There were only a few words in each line and the larger part of each page was left completely blank.

He picked a page at random and started to read. _Chanson,_ that meant song. _De Galathée,_ of something… maybe a name of a city or a regiment? _Bergère,_ shepherdess. Maybe a name. Maybe Galathée was the name of the girl. He smiled. Sounded like Aramis and Marsac to own a book about a singing shepherdess.

For all the waste of paper, he did like how few words there were in each line. He could move on to the next one very quickly. _Arbres,_ trees, that was easy, but the next word baffled him again. _Feuillus,_ something about the trees, presumably. Porthos rubbed his forehead. This book made no sense. It used words that no one could understand, but then that sounded like Aramis, the pretentious git. He looked over to the bed. Nothing pretentious about Aramis now. He lay curled up under his blankets, a little bundle of a man, no different from the one Tréville had carried up here nearly two weeks ago. Porthos sighed. He shouldn’t think poorly of Aramis, not when he was like that.

He wondered when the screaming would start. Aramis seemed to be sleeping soundly, but for how long? Maybe he shouldn’t have stayed. Maybe he was only making it worse. And once it started, then what? He could run for Tréville, of course, but that would hardly recommend him as a strong, independent musketeer. It would also mean leaving Aramis alone and he didn’t want that.

He took out his cards and played a few rounds of Patience. Always a good way to keep himself awake during long watches. He felt he was on watch here, guarding against some mysterious enemy. He didn’t know what to expect, what would happen to Aramis. Judging by the screaming he had heard, Aramis was in agony each night. Did he hurt himself? Would there be some apparition, some ghost to torture him? Porthos chuckled softly. Nonsense. He knew from personal experience that most ghosts were ordinary people that simply didn’t want to be seen.

Porthos jumped when the screaming started.

There was nothing. No ghost, no apparition, no flesh and blood enemy, and no way Aramis was hurting himself. He just screamed.

He was no longer curled up on his side, but lay on his back, his head thrown back. His eyes were closed, his face a stretched into a grotesque grimace.

Porthos quickly lit the second lamp, trying to get a better look at it all. Aramis was thrashing on his bed like a man possessed. Which, by the sound of it, he might well be.

“Aramis,” Porthos called. “Aramis, wake up.”

If anything, the screaming grew louder.

“Aramis, I’m here. It’s alright.”

Aramis was thrashing about so wildly, Porthos was afraid he’d injure himself. And then where’d they be? Aramis without his health and Porthos without his commission.

He caught Aramis’ hands in his and leaned over him.

“I got you, it’s alright,” he said.

Aramis’ eyes snapped open.

“There you are,” Porthos said and smiled.

Aramis gasped for breath and then continued to scream. It was like the howling of a wild animal, shrill and desperate. His body bucked upwards, as if trying to throw Porthos off. It wasn’t a struggle at all, not with Porthos standing up and Aramis as frail as he was.

Leaning closer, Porthos lowered his voice, speaking quietly to Aramis.

“You’re safe here,” he said. “You’re in Paris, at the garrison. Everyone’s here, all the musketeers, the recruits, and the captain. They’re all here to keep you safe. There’s men on watch at the gate all night. The best soldiers in all of France. You’re safe. They won’t let anyone in, nobody will reach you here. You’re safe…”

None of it seemed to reach Aramis. His eyes were still open, but they didn’t seem to see, utterly empty, staring at some point far above Porthos’ shoulder.

“Come on, Aramis, wake up,” Porthos pleaded.

There was no reaction.

Tears were running down Aramis’ hollow cheeks.

His eyes were roving aimlessly. Or maybe they did have an aim, but one Porthos couldn’t see. He’d never seen a man tortured, but he imagined it would look like that. Aramis seemed in agony. And yet there was nothing. There was no whip stripping the skin from his back, no wheel breaking his bones, no fire licking at his feet. Nothing but an empty room.

A room filled with the ghosts of Savoy, no doubt. Porthos wondered what Aramis had seen. They’d been slain where they slept, Porthos knew that. At night in the forest with no warning at all… he could imagine the carnage all too well. He’d seen many men die, they all had. But it wasn’t anything like what it was for Aramis.

It made Porthos sad to see him like that. He didn’t know what to do. He felt helpless. He continued to hold Aramis’ wrists, gently rubbing the bony joints with his thumbs. And he continued to talk. He spoke of anything he could think of, the odd book by the Belgian guy, the rules of Patience, anything at all.

It didn’t help.

Aramis never woke up.

He slumped back in exhaustion, his head lolling to the side as his eyes closed and the screaming stopped. It happened so suddenly that Porthos would have feared for his life if he hadn’t been feeling the frantic pulse under his fingertips.

Aramis’ arms had stopped moving, stopped struggling against Porthos’ grip. Porthos ran his hands up and down Aramis’ arms tenderly, trying to soothe in any way possible, to provide whatever little help he could offer. He knew it wasn’t much. He couldn’t fight whatever demons Aramis saw.

The rest of the night was quiet and Porthos slept on Marsac’s old bed, waking occasionally to check on Aramis who seemed completely spent after his nightmare.

In a reversal of their usual roles, it was Tréville who brought breakfast. He was vibrating with barely-concealed anxiety.

“How did it go?” he whispered to Porthos who was just getting dressed. “Was he… Did he…”

Porthos shrugged. “You heard him. No better than usual.”

He silently chided himself. Tréville had been trying to sleep only a few doors down. And he’d let Aramis scream, keeping the captain awake again. He did look less like a walking corpse though, so it must have helped some to be in a different room.

“What did you do?” Tréville asked.

“Nothing,” Porthos said truthfully. He wished he had thought of something.

Tréville shook his head and looked critically at Porthos.

“I’m sorry he kept you awake,” Porthos added. “I should have done better.”

The corner of Tréville’s mouth twitched into the smallest of smirks. “Hardly,” he said. “It lasted just under an hour.”

“I didn’t know,” Porthos said sheepishly.

“The next time the bell rang, I would have come over,” Tréville said. “But… it stopped.”

“He fell asleep,” Porthos said. “Just sort of… stopped.”

Tréville shook his head. “You are a marvel, Porthos.”

“Sir?” Porthos asked, not sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

“This is remarkable,” Tréville explained. “With me, he’s averaging three hours a night.”

“Oh,” Porthos said. He’d never kept track since he was able to sleep through most anything.

“Three hours of screaming versus one.”

“Still too much,” Porthos said. “He’s…” He swallowed. He didn’t want to say anything to disparage Aramis. He knew what the others said, Leblanc and Eugène and that lot. “He’s strong,” he finally said. “He fought it, whatever he sees. Breathing hard like he was fighting for real. He was… I think it’s real for him. He’s got to fight for his life.”

Tréville nodded. “These dreams… they’re real to him.”

Porthos frowned. “With respect, sir,” he said. “But that’s not dreams. It’s…” He struggled to explain his thoughts. “It’s like he’s being tortured. But the torturer… he’s in here.” He tapped his forehead. “Doesn’t mean he’s not real though.”

Tréville looked surprised, but did not dispute Porthos’ logic.

“One day his sentence will be over,” he said. “And the screaming will stop.”

“But—” Porthos stopped himself. It wasn’t his place to constantly disagree with his captain.

“It has to,” Tréville said. “Aramis’ place is at the garrison and— anyways, I’m glad to see you are well and I assume you shall commence your routine from here.”

And what? Tréville had stopped himself suddenly, as if afraid he was saying too much. Something about Aramis’ place at the garrison. Like he was questioning Aramis’ place at the garrison if the screaming continued. And that didn’t seem right.

“Sir? If it’s alright with you I’d like to… something was better last night so if I can find out what…”

Tréville looked at him for a long time. Porthos met his glance steadily. Finally, Tréville nodded.

“Do what you can, Porthos. I’ll see you tonight.”

Porthos scratched his beard when Tréville had left. The race was on. One day to figure it out and prove himself once and for all. More importantly, one day to prove that Aramis still had a place among the musketeers.

Aramis remained stubbornly silent and avoided any eye contact during his breakfast that day. Porthos coaxed him into taking the spoon himself, but his hands trembled so much he only ended up flinging gruel everywhere. Aramis huffed, clearly annoyed, while Porthos cleaned up the mess. Porthos left him to his bad mood. He couldn’t blame him, really.

He couldn’t believe that Tréville would even entertain the thought of giving Aramis his marching orders. He’d been hurt in the line of duty. Surely, he must be allowed to heal in it as well.

Porthos knew that thought was ridiculous, of course. A regiment wasn’t an infirmary. They took care of injuries, but when a man was permanently unfit for duty… It happened, of course. Some stuck around, like Serge did. But if Aramis was to remain the way he was… there wasn’t a job for a man who couldn’t even feed himself.

Porthos helped Aramis through his morning routine. He left the small book he’d picked up the previous night on a stool next to the bed. Maybe Aramis would be able to reach for it. The pauldron still rested next to Aramis pillow.  He smiled down at Aramis.

“All good and ready for the day,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Aramis’ lips were pressed together in a thin line. He refused to answer or even look up.

“Aramis?” Porthos pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed.

Aramis continued to avoid his eyes, but Porthos could be patient. He put his elbows onto his knees and settled in for the duration.

“If you want to tell me what’s bothering you, you’re welcome,” he said.

It took time, but Porthos had all day. Eventually, Aramis spoke.

“Screaming?” he asked, voice rough.

“You alright?” Porthos asked, not sure where this was going.

Aramis finally looked at him. His eyebrows were knitted together, his forehead creased.

“I scream?”

“Oh…” Porthos breathed. “I thought you… You didn’t know?”

Aramis looked off to the side, sucking on his bottom lip. “So much… screaming. Thought it was all… in my head.”

“Oh Aramis…” Porthos wanted to reach out, to hold him, to offer some form of comfort, but he caught himself.

“Three hours,” Aramis whispered.

“Only one hour last night.”

“Screaming… Loud?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Tréville heard.”

“It doesn’t matter. It only matters that you’re getting better.”

“They all heard.”

“Nobody minds, they all understand.”

Aramis glared at him.

“They hate me.”

“No, Aramis,” Porthos protested. “Nobody hates you. They’re grieving, but they’re all happy to have you back.”

“Grieving because I’m… here…” Aramis’ voice trailed off.

“Don’t think like that.”

Aramis fell silent. He let his head and shoulders hang. Porthos was reminded of the first time he’d seen him after Savoy, a little frightened bird cowering in his bed. All progress from the previous day seemed erased.

“You’re getting better,” he insisted.

Aramis made a noise half-way between a sob and a choked laugh.

“What made it better last night?” Porthos asked.

“Nothing.”

“You heard the captain. Less than an hour. Not three. Something was better.”

“No.”

“Was it that I left the lights on?”

Aramis pressed his lips together and looked away from him.

“Was it that you could see me? Was it talking to you? Was it because I held you?”

“You… held me?” Aramis asked sharply.

“Your arms. You were hurting yourself.”

Aramis huffed.

“What made it better?” Porthos asked. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

Porthos groaned and got up. “Tough. You’re getting it.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

At lunch that day, Aramis ignored him completely. Porthos took it as a sign of success that Aramis held himself very stiffly, not leaning into him at all. Sitting up on his own was certainly a step forward. By dinnertime, the atmosphere was positively icy. Porthos didn’t let it dampen his spirits. He kept up his usual monologue, completely unimpressed by Aramis’ glares.

“I don’t want you here,” Aramis said once Porthos had settled him for the night.

Porthos shrugged. “Tough,” he repeated. “Captain wants me here.”

It had been easy enough to convince Tréville. He wanted Aramis to get better and Porthos took a gamble, promising that he could help. If nothing else, Aramis’ animosity convinced him that there was some chance of his condition improving. If the man had enough energy to be petty, he had enough energy to get better. And even if he didn’t, Porthos had energy to spare. He’d make a place at the garrison for the two of them.

“Go away,” Aramis said.

Porthos sat down and shuffled his cards before replying. “Captain’s orders. You and me, in here, till breakfast.”

Aramis snorted derisively. With more vigour than Porthos had seen him display since the massacre, he turned onto his side, facing the wall. Porthos smiled. He could live with that.

He played a few rounds of Patience. In the otherwise silent room, he could hear Aramis shift uncomfortably. His breaths didn’t even out, instead he seemed to hiss out air between his teeth.

“Go to sleep, Aramis,” he finally said. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

“Not helping,” Aramis ground out.

“What can I do to help?”

“Go away.”

“Not that.”

Aramis huffed. “Wake me?” he asked, his voice small and wavering.

“I’m not sure I can,” Porthos said. “I couldn’t last night.”

Aramis made no reply. Porthos sat in silence, looking at the musketeer’s back. He wished there was something he could do for him, but he didn’t know what. He didn’t think Aramis knew either.

It took two dozen rounds of Patience for Aramis’ breath to finally deepen and become regular. Porthos stopped his card game and simply sat and listened. His fingers went to his neck, playing with the little pendant on its chain. Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes, had served him well over the years. He sent up a little prayer in his own simple words that he would help Aramis as well. A single night without screaming, that would be something.

Saint Jude had more urgent things to do that night.

It started with a low whimper. Porthos was next to the bed in an instant, talking softly to the distressed man. He put the lamp as close as he dared, considering Aramis’ erratic movement. He’d thought about it during the day. If Aramis’ mind took him back to Savoy and showed him the Spanish attack, maybe it would help for the room to be bright and warm, as unlike to the forest as possible. Maybe it would also help him to not mistake Porthos for a Spanish soldier.

“Aramis,” he said softly. “It’s alright, you’re safe.”

Aramis took in a great, shuddering breath. The scream was as wild and desperate as the previous night.

“Hey,” Porthos said and put a hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “Wake up.”

Aramis roughly pulled his shoulder from Porthos’ grasp and flopped face first onto his pillow. The scream was muffled now. Aramis started to hit the bed with his fists, violently angry at whatever he saw.

“Wake up,” Porthos repeated. “You wanted me to wake you, come on.”

Aramis’ scream came to a shuddering halt. For a moment, Porthos thought it had worked. Then a rasping breath followed and the scream resumed. Aramis pressed his head further into the pillow, pushing his face deep into the feathers. His gasps for air became increasingly frantic.

“Don’t,” Porthos said. “Come on, you can’t breathe like that. Turn over.”

When Aramis didn’t react, Porthos grabbed his shoulders and very gently tried to move him. Aramis’ breath hitched and the scream turned into a shrill screech. He desperately pressed the pillow to his face.

“No, no, none of that,” Porthos said. “Don’t you dare…”

Aramis curled in on himself, the pillow between his chin and his breast. The screech ended in a throaty grunt, but still Aramis wouldn’t let go.

Porthos pulled with all his might. He wouldn’t let Aramis suffocate himself. He wouldn’t let him go like that.

He pulled the pillow from Aramis’ mouth. He hadn’t counted on Aramis’ ferocity in keeping it there. He clung to it with all his strength, which was surprising for the overall state he was in. Porthos at least managed to shift the pillow far enough for Aramis to take in a gasping breath.

“Give me that,” Porthos barked and wrestled one corner of the pillow from the once again screaming man.

The next moment, Aramis’ fist connected ferociously with his left eye.

Surprised by the sudden attack, Porthos fell back, ripping the pillow in the process. He went down in a flurry of feathers falling around him like snow.

His hand went up to his eye, feeling for blood. He winced. The skin was tender, but intact. He closed his right eye for a moment and was glad that he could still see. He’d barely kept his left eye the previous year and he wasn’t about to lose it to that madman now.

_Aramis._

Porthos scrambled to his knees and looked at the bed. Aramis lay on his back, still gasping for air. Each breath was accompanied by a whimper, but at least the screaming had stopped. His eyes were wide open, looking up.

“Aramis,” Porthos called. He moved in front of Aramis, but the dark eyes looked straight through him. He gently touched his arm, but Aramis didn’t react, just kept staring straight ahead and breathing heavily.

At least he wasn’t screaming.

Porthos sighed and fingered his face again. The eye was swelling shut already. Aramis had hit him good. Nothing to be done about it now. He had to help Aramis first.

Porthos got the pillow from the other bed and brushed the stray feathers from Aramis’ bed and body before repositioning him. Bent low over Aramis, he noticed that once again there were tears streaming from his eyes. He brushed them away with his thumb, but could do little to stem the flood. The poor bugger.

Porthos collected as many of the feathers as he could find and stuffed them back into the shredded pillowcase. He’d have to sew that in the morning. He sighed. He wasn’t much of a seamstress.

He went to bed still listening to Aramis’ distressed whimpers. The screaming had been short that night, he realised that, but he felt no better for it.

The next morning, he met Tréville outside. His eye had swollen considerably and he didn’t want to risk Tréville reacting to it in front of Aramis. It proved a wise choice. The captain grabbed his chin to angle his face to the faint light of the rising sun and gave the bruise a thorough inspection. It took several minutes to convince him that it had been Porthos’ fault entirely and Aramis was not in fact a danger to anyone.

Tréville had noticed how short the screaming had been the night before. Even though he was concerned about Porthos’ injury, in the end it was only a minor side effect. If it meant Aramis got well, he’d probably let him punch a recruit every night.

Porthos didn’t blame him for it.

He was particularly cheerful when he opened the shutters that morning, chattering about how it looked a beautiful day out there, the sun shining, the trees laden with flowers.

“And you had a good night,” he concluded.

“No screaming?” Aramis asked.

“Very little.”

Aramis sighed and Porthos watched him knead his forehead. Porthos smiled. It was good to see Aramis move deliberately. It was good to hear his voice be less rough than before.

“I remember, there was…” Aramis said.

“What do you remember?”

“Nonsense.” Aramis shook his head. “Somehow I think I was attacked.”

“You were in here all night. Nobody entered the room.”

“I know that.” Aramis huffed out a breath in frustration.

“Give yourself time,” Porthos said, not knowing what else to say.

Aramis immediately turned on his feeble attempt at positivity. “How much time?”

He whipped his head around, finally looking at Porthos. The effect was immediate. What little colour he had regained drained from his face. Porthos reached out a steadying arm, afraid he might topple over.

“What happened?” Aramis asked tonelessly.

Porthos smiled at him. “Nothing.”

“Porthos…” Aramis was breathing quickly.

“It’s nothing,” Porthos repeated.

“The truth,” Aramis ground out. Porthos frowned. He didn’t want to give him that, but being called out so directly, he felt he had little choice.

“We had a little disagreement,” he said eventually.

“We… I…”

“It’s alright. Don’t think about it.”

Aramis’ eyes were wide and he was gasping for air almost like the night before.

“It doesn’t even hurt,” Porthos tried to reassure him.

“Your eye…”

“It’s fine. Just swollen. I’ve had worse.”

“Let me…” Aramis reached out a trembling hand.

Porthos leaned forward until Aramis’ fingers brushed against his forehead. It was clear he wanted to inspect the damage done to Porthos’ eye, but his hand was shaking so badly, his fingers kept aimlessly running across Porthos’ face. Porthos gently took hold of his wrist and guided Aramis’ fingers with his own. Aramis felt along his eyebrow, then prodded the bone beneath his eye. Porthos barely held back a hiss of pain. To his surprise, Aramis lingered on his scar, tracing it all the way from his forehead to his cheek.

“It’s stretched,” Aramis breathed.

“It’s holding fine.”

“For now.” Aramis’ voice sounded pained.

“It’s fine, Aramis.”

“I hurt you.”

Porthos shrugged. “I’ll return the favour once you’re training again.”

Aramis didn’t go along with his levity. He averted his eyes and dropped his hand from Porthos’ face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be,” Porthos responded, but Aramis wouldn’t look at him.

“Hey,” Porthos said. “One thing’s for sure, your aim’s still true!”

A little noise escaped Aramis, but no words followed.

At least he ate when Porthos fed him.

“I’ve always envied your aim,” Porthos told him, resigning himself to one-sided conversation once more. “You know when I first arrived at the garrison, I didn’t even think Tréville’d let me stay. And then he does and suddenly it’s all training with muskets and pistols and stuff.”

He set down the bowl and let Aramis have a sip to drink, smiling at how much progress he had made.

“I’d been an infantryman,” Porthos continued. “Not one of you fancy pants. We didn’t get to shoot much. Even if you had a weapon, no armoury to go to for powder and balls. So I barely knew one end of a gun from the other.”

“You’re good,” Aramis croaked.

Porthos chuckled. “You’re not fooling anyone. Tréville kept me for hand-to-hand. I can manage a blade, but I’m a rubbish shot.”

Aramis made no reply. Porthos hummed happily while he continued to feed him.

“You were the worst though,” he said. “There’s me doing target practice. I’m bad enough as it is, mind. And then there’s you. Sauntering out of your room, not even looking, and you shoot bullseye on my target from the balcony.”

“How do you know I wasn’t looking?”

Porthos huffed out a laugh and squeezed Aramis’ shoulder. “That’s just you. When you show someone up, you do it properly.”

Aramis didn’t reply and didn’t smile as such, but somehow Porthos felt like he did, like he’d enjoyed that reminder of more carefree days.

They finished the meal in silence, but Porthos was still smiling when he left the room. He wanted to join the shooting practice that morning, imagining Aramis up on that balcony again, sashaying down the stairs, smirking at his mediocre aim. One day they’d get back to that. For now, he’d take Aramis as he was. Take one step at a time, one day after the other. They’d get there eventually.

Porthos went to the armoury to retrieve a weapon and some ammunition. He was humming a tavern song and thinking about how lucky he was to have access to an armoury like that on top of a roof over his head and as much food as he could eat.

Two musketeers were in the armoury already. One of them stretched and yawned. Porthos recognised Eugène and decided to leave them well alone.

“A man can’t get a decent night’s sleep around here,” Eugène said. “Always that madman screaming.”

Porthos wanted to make him scream for that comment alone. That was no way to speak about Aramis. But he tried to be smart and ignore them. Best not to get involved. It wasn’t his place to be criticising senior musketeers.

The other musketeer, Leblanc, laughed. “When he stopped last night, I hoped he’d finally choked on it, but—”

“Don’t say that!” Porthos interrupted him before his conscious mind could intervene. That much for not getting involved. He’d get himself into trouble. And for what? It wasn’t like Aramis would walk into the room any minute. Too late now. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he added.

“Oh really?” Leblanc said. “I don’t know anything, do I? But you do, little nursemaid?”

Eugène chuckled. “Don’t interrupt when adults are talking,” he said dismissively.

They made to go back to whatever they had been discussing, but Porthos hovered awkwardly. He knew he had to let it go, but hated to hear them talk about Aramis like he didn’t even matter.

Leblanc glared at him. Catching sight of Porthos’ black eye, he laughed. “Doesn’t look like you’re much of a nursemaid either.”

Porthos swallowed heavily, trying very hard to be the bigger man. “Leave it alone,” he said and turned away from them to select a musket.

They laughed. “Can’t even handle that little cry baby, eh?”

Porthos balled his fists. He was shaking worse than Aramis. “Say what you want about me,” he said trying very hard to keep his voice even. “But Aramis is a musketeer.”

“A musketeer?” Leblanc said. “He’s nothing but a coward.”

The anger made Porthos’ body move on its own. Next thing he knew, he had Leblanc pinned to the wall, forearm across his throat.

“Shut your face,” he growled. “You have no idea.”

They stared at each other, Porthos snarling and Leblanc blessedly silent for once.

“What’s going on here?” Bernard stepped into the room.

Porthos froze just long enough for Leblanc to slip from his grasp.

Leblanc laughed. “We were merely fooling around,” he said and laughed. “Our little friend here has much to learn.” He reached up to ruffle Porthos’ hair.

Behind them, Eugène laughed and said something as well, but Porthos focussed on Leblanc who drew him close and whispered into his ear. “A recruit attacking a musketeer… how would that look…”

A _black_ recruit, Porthos’ mind added. A black recruit’s word against that of two white musketeers.

“What really happened?” Bernard asked sharply. Porthos’ stomach tied itself into a knot around his breakfast. Bernard didn’t sound convinced. Sounded like he was itching for a confession that would condemn Porthos.

“Leblanc is right,” Porthos said. “I have a lot to learn.”

He went back to picking up a musket. Leblanc and Eugène left, laughing, but thankfully not about Aramis.

“Porthos,” Bernard said. “Your eye. Captain Tréville does not tolerate violence among his men.”

Porthos wheeled around. “It’s not—”

“If Leblanc…”

Bile rose in Porthos’ throat. He couldn’t afford to be dragged in front of Tréville for instigating a fight with two musketeers. “The captain already knows,” he said. “It’s fine. It was Aramis. It was my fault. It’s fine, really.”

Bernard’s face softened. “Aramis has always been a feisty one,” he said. “Thank you for bringing that back, lad.”

Porthos breathed out deeply when Bernard left the armoury. Leblanc was right indeed. He had so much to learn. How to master his temper for one. How to not get himself kicked out of the garrison.

It was wrong what they had said. But it wasn’t his place to discipline musketeers. He wondered how much the captain knew about what the men were saying. After the incident with Serge, he had given Leblanc, Eugène and their companion a very public dressing down and issued a clear warning to everyone else, but it had only given food to the whispers. Porthos knew he wasn’t hearing half of what was going on in the garrison and suspected the captain heard even less.

His shooting was even worse than usual that day. He couldn’t see well; that was a convenient excuse. The truth was he couldn’t focus his thoughts long enough to aim properly.

He tried his hardest to be his usual cheerful self by lunch, regaling Aramis with tales of his misadventures with the musket. He didn’t mind making himself look the fool in front of Aramis, as long as it made mealtimes pleasant. By dinnertime, that didn’t work any more. No matter what Porthos said, Aramis seemed tense.

 “Tréville coming tonight?” he asked.

“Nah, it’s me again,” Porthos said. “He’s got some thing at the palace. King’s having a spring fête. Wanted a dozen musketeers and the captain. Wouldn’t let him out of it.”

“A dozen…” Aramis repeated. “Only recruits here?”

Porthos nodded. “Almost. Bernard’s in charge for the night.”

They both knew they were short of musketeers, no need to elaborate. Bernard was a good man and Porthos respected him, but he wasn’t a leader as such. In sharp contrast to Aramis of old, he was quiet and preferred to be in the background, much like Porthos himself. Maybe it was the fate of big men.

Aramis sank back into his pillows with a sigh and worried his lower lip.

“You alright?” Porthos asked.

“Fine,” Aramis spat. He looked and sounded nowhere close to fine, but Porthos didn’t press the point. He decided to see this tetchiness as a return to form.

“Take the light away,” Aramis said when Porthos helped him settle down for the night.

Porthos frowned. “You sure?”

“It bothers me.”

Porthos shrugged. He didn’t think this was a good idea, but really couldn’t say much against Aramis’ express wish. After all, he was here to serve the musketeer, so he moved the light to his corner, allowing Aramis to sleep in the dark.

He started with his usual game of cards, but got frustrated when he lost the first two rounds and decided to sit and wait for the inevitable screaming. As did Aramis. Porthos could hear him shift in the dark. This went on for some time, with Aramis groaning and sighing a fair bit. Porthos wanted to ask him if he was uncomfortable, but held his tongue. Aramis had made it clear he wasn’t in a mood to be questioned.

Porthos peered over to the bed when there was a particularly frustrated grunt. He couldn’t see very well, but thought Aramis was spread out on his back, not curled up on his side as usual. He hoped Aramis wasn’t deliberately keeping himself awake. He was exhausted enough without adding further torture.

With so many men away at the palace, the garrison was quiet that night. Once, Porthos heard Bernard call out to the man on guard at the gate, and a little later, a group of young men returned from the tavern, light banter flying back and forth between them. The usual tall tales about women and wine, and some boasts about how well they’d do at training the next day. Porthos smiled. Aramis would fit right in. If he weren’t currently fighting the invisible torturers of his mind.

Porthos started to doze off, listening to Aramis’ breaths slowly evening out. He imagined fighting with Aramis, side by side as two commissioned musketeers proudly wearing their pauldrons. They’d be good together. They’d—

An agonised scream tore through his thoughts. Porthos jumped up, sending the chair crashing to the floor.

It was becoming some sort of sad routine now. He brought the lamp closer to the bed, all the while talking soothingly to Aramis.

Something was different that night. A banging accompanied Aramis’ thrashing, the bed moving enough to hit the wall.

“Hey,” Porthos said. “You’ve got some reputation in the bedroom. We don’t want anyone getting ideas when it’s the two of us in here.”

He tried to keep the conversation light while he positioned the lamp.

Aramis’ body was bucking wildly on the bed. He was screaming like the skin was being torn from his limbs, throwing his head back in utter agony.

“Aramis, you’re at the garrison. I’m here… Please, Aramis, it’s fine,” Porthos said, keeping his voice as calm as he could.

He stayed just out of reach, wary after the previous night’s events. He was on Tréville’s side there, he’d let Aramis punch him as often as he needed to get better, but Aramis’ reaction to his black eye had been anything but encouraging.

Aramis was covered by his usual pile of blankets, unwilling to relinquish a single one of them. It made it difficult to see his body clearly, but something seemed odd. Aramis held his hands over his head on either side of his pillow. The pauldron that had sat there had disappeared. When his body bucked, the entire bed jumped, the wood creaking.

“Aramis?” Porthos’ exhausted mind was slow to piece together the information, but when it did, he moved quickly to tear away the blankets.

Aramis had tied himself to the bed.

Porthos tried to hold him, tried to stop his frantic movement. All it did was to madden Aramis further. He was bucking up almost into a sitting position, trying to throw Porthos off, his shoulders drawn back painfully.

“Aramis, no, no, no. Don’t.”

He’d tied his wrists to the bedposts, one with his pauldron, the other with a belt he must have found discarded under the bed. The leather was digging into his skin, the bones grinding against the solid wood of the bed.

Porthos quickly loosened the belt, releasing Aramis’ right hand. The wrist was an angry red. Porthos pinned it to the bed with his leg, unwilling to risk another incident.

Aramis’ scream became shriller as he tried to get away from Porthos. His eyes were wide and full of panic.

“It’s me, Porthos,” Porthos said. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help. Please, Aramis, I’m no Spaniard.”

Aramis flipped back violently, smashing the back of his head against the headboard.

“Don’t go hurting yourself,” Porthos chided, trying to manoeuvre his body so he could keep an arm between Aramis’ head and the wood. It was a difficult endeavour. He needed two hands to try and untie the knotted straps around Aramis’ other wrist.

Porthos cursed. Aramis’ constant movement had tightened the knots, making them nearly impossible to undo. When Porthos got both hands onto the tangled straps, Aramis promptly used the opportunity to crack his head against the bedpost. He seemed stunned, giving Porthos the opportunity to  straddled his chest. That way he could pin Aramis’ right hand down with his knee, while keeping his upper body immobile. He ignored Aramis’ bony knees hitting him in the back.

“Aramis, please,” he pleaded. “I’m trying to help. Don’t hurt yourself.”

He kept up a steady stream of what he hoped were reassuring words, but they made no difference. Aramis was still moving as much as he could, fighting Porthos with all the energy he could muster.

It would be quicker to cut the straps off the pauldron, but it meant so much to Aramis, Porthos was loath to damage it. And using a knife so close to Aramis was not his idea of keeping him safe either, so he kept working on those damned knots.

How on earth Aramis had managed to tie himself up so thoroughly, Porthos didn’t know. The darkness certainly made sense now.

Porthos dropped as much of his weight as he dared onto Aramis’ chest. He didn’t want to suffocate him, but he needed him to calm down. The constant movement continually undid his work by tightening the remaining knots even further or shifting them along the bedpost. Of course that also meant further friction on Aramis’ wrist. The skin was already rubbed raw by the leather.

The breath rushed out of Aramis and all the tension left his body as soon as Porthos dropped onto his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Porthos said, not looking at him while he worked frantically. “I don’t want to hurt you, but you’re making it worse.”

He finally managed to untangle the straps and free Aramis’ hand. Quickly, he pushed himself off the musketeer’s limp body. All the fight had gone out of Aramis, but to Porthos’ relief he was breathing.

Porthos cradled Aramis’ abused hands in his lap. Aramis winced when Porthos felt along his fingers, making sure nothing was broken. Bruises and abrasions, as far as he could tell, but nothing seriously wrong. At least they’d made the leather nice and supple. Porthos told himself that might have helped.

He noticed Aramis looking at him, actually looking at him rather than through him. He gave him a tired smile.

“Think we got lucky there,” Porthos said. “But there’ll be bruises tomorrow.”

“Your eye?” Aramis asked.

Porthos was confused. He blinked his eyes. When his left eyelid wouldn’t budge, he remembered what Aramis was referring to.

“Oh,” he said. “That’s fine.”

“I didn’t…?”

“Hit me? No.”

Aramis sighed and let his head loll limply to the side. “I’m glad.”

“Is that why you…? Oh Aramis…” Porthos felt tears in the corners of his eyes. “You shouldn’t have. Don’t you ever do that again. Don’t you dare.”

“I’m not hurting you.”

“So you’re hurting yourself instead?” Porthos asked. “That makes no sense.”

He brushed his hand over Aramis’ short hair. He stopped suddenly when his fingers touched something wet. He quickly brought his hand up to his eyes. Predictably, he found blood.

“Aramis…” He held is bloody hand up between them.

Aramis lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ll…”

He made to sit up.

“Don’t,” Porthos said. “I’m not having you pass out on me.”

Despite Aramis’ protests, Porthos helped him sit up leaning against the headboard. He critically peered at his head.

“There’s a lot of blood.”

“It’s normal with head wounds,” Aramis said.

Porthos frowned. “I can’t even see… can I clean it up?”

“Water.”

Porthos bustled around the room, getting a clean cloth and a small basin of water. The water was a dull red by the time he had finished, but tilting Aramis’ head towards the lamp he could see the wound itself was only a small nick and the bleeding had stopped entirely.

“Looks like you hit the corner of the post,” he explained to Aramis.

“It’s fine,” Aramis breathed.

“I’m not sure.” Porthos frowned. “It bled a lot. Maybe it needs stitches.”

“Let me…”

Porthos took Aramis’ hand in his and guided it to the back of his head, helping him explore the wound.

“It’s fine,” Aramis repeated after a few seconds.

“You sure?”

“It’ll heal on its own.”

“Should I send for a surgeon?”

“No.”

Porthos grumbled about keeping an eye on it, but figured there wasn’t much to be done in the middle of the night. It didn’t look too serious to him. He sat down with his chin in his hands.

“What do we do now?” he asked. Sleeping didn’t seem to be an option, but he could see Aramis flagging. He needed to rest.

“Leave me,” Aramis whispered.

“To do what?”

“I’ll leave in the morning.”

“Even if you could. Where would you go?”

Aramis gave a weak shrug. “My family.”

“And do what?”

Aramis remained silent.

“If you are thinking anywhere along the lines of _dying in a ditch_ ,” Porthos said. “Then cut it out. You’re not going to.”

“Then what would you have me do?” Aramis looked up at him. Porthos could see that his eyes were swimming with tears.

He sighed. “What do you see?”

A shiver went through Aramis. “You don’t have to tell me,” Porthos added quickly.

“I see… them.”

“The Spanish.”

“No. Them… screaming… The screams as they…” He weakly shook his head. “I see Marsac. I see Lazare, Gilles… Laurent…”

Porthos’ heart squeezed painfully at the mention of his late friend.

“There’s so much blood,” Aramis continued. “So much.”

“You’re safe now,” Porthos said, blinking away tears.

“They’re all dead.”

“But you’re not.” Porthos reached out to tenderly brush across Aramis’ hands.

“But why?” Aramis asked, his voice wavering.

Porthos gave his hands a squeeze.

“You should talk to a priest about that.”

Aramis did not even acknowledge his comment. His eyes were drifting again, back to that forest, back to Savoy, to Laurent and the others.

“I see… them. They come… they call… and I… I can’t follow…”

Porthos gave him a soft smile. “I’m glad.”

Aramis shook his head. “I want to, but… I can’t. I don’t belong there. But I don’t belong here.”

“You _do_ belong here,” Porthos said firmly. But he could see Aramis’ point. He wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t really alive either.

The tears finally began to fall. Aramis’ thin frame was shaking with the force of the sobs. He didn’t make a sound, which made his crying somewhat eerie. Porthos had never seen a grown man sob like that, but he’d also never seen anyone cry completely without sound. Porthos slid from the chair and knelt in front of the bed, holding Aramis’ hands in his, trying to give him some anchor, some reassurance.

“I don’t want to be that… that thing,” Aramis gasped out.

“You’re no thing.”

“I’m dangerous. I need to—”

“You don’t need to be tied up,” Porthos interrupted sharply. “And if you don’t believe me, think what Tréville would say to that. No.”

“When I see… them… I want to… I want to kill.”

Aramis’ breath ground to a shuddering halt after his confession, but Porthos simply continued to lightly stroke his abused wrists.

“And I will not have you hurt yourself any more because of that.”

Aramis curled forward as if he had been hit in the stomach, sobbing with renewed vigour, but still ghostly silent. Porthos just sat there, not knowing what to do. He couldn’t make it better, he knew that. He couldn’t do what Aramis needed most, he couldn’t bring them back to life.

“I’m tired,” Aramis groaned.

Porthos moved to the bed, sitting down and drawing him into a firm embrace. He shushed him quietly while rubbing circles on his heaving back. He couldn’t begin to imagine how hard all of this was for Aramis, but he did know that he deserved so much better.

When Aramis’ sobbing seemed to calm down a little, Porthos grabbed his wrists again. His hands easily encircled Aramis’ arms.

“I can restrain you,” Porthos said. “Much more secure than belts and ropes and all that.”

Aramis sniffed.

“I want you to sleep without worry,” Porthos added. “I can hold you. Easily.”

Aramis’ sob caught in his throat.

“You can’t sit like that all night,” he whispered. Porthos hummed his assent.

“Not very comfortable for either of us.” He thought about it for a moment. “Could we try lying down?”

Aramis cleared his throat. “You’re not sitting on the floor all night.”

“No,” Porthos agreed. “I wouldn’t have a good grip on you like that.”

Nevertheless, he moved Aramis until he was lying down on his side and carefully draped all of the blankets around him again. Finally, he put Aramis’ hands on the mattress in front of him.

“What now?” Aramis asked sceptically.

Porthos gnawed on his lower lip. “Would it be alright for me to lie behind you?”

Aramis frowned.

“I could restrain you like that and we could both get some sleep,” Porthos explained. “But only if you are comfortable with it.”

Aramis looked anything but comfortable.

“Forget it, I’ll think of something else,” Porthos said.

“I’m… I’m not sure if I’ll see it as an attack.”

Porthos nodded. Of course. Being touched, being held like that… his mind would probably show him the dead drawing him down, trying to take him away with them. But he was already caught in a constant cycle of panic, so how much would it really change?

“I’m willing to give it a try if you are,” Porthos said.

Aramis looked terrified, but eventually, he nodded. “Do it.”

Porthos extinguished the lamp. Then he wormed his way in between the pile of blankets and the wall. Aramis held himself very stiffly. Porthos got comfortable on his side and then drew Aramis into an embrace once again, taking a firm hold of his hands. Even through the blankets, he could feel Aramis freeze.

“Shh,” he said. “It’s not an attack.”

Aramis was still bracing himself. His hands were clawing at the blankets. Porthos traced little circles on them with his thumbs.

“Hold them tighter,” Aramis ground out.

“I won’t hurt you,” Porthos said.

“No, but...” Aramis broke off in a contended sigh when Porthos closed his fingers firmly around his wrists.

“It’s not an attack,” Porthos reminded him.

“Yeah,” Aramis breathed, but he still wouldn’t let himself relax.

“If there’s anything... just tell me,” Porthos said. “You’re not helpless here.”

Aramis sighed again and Porthos thought he could feel his shoulders soften ever so slightly. It was hard to tell through all those blankets. Porthos was beginning to drift off when Aramis spoke again.

“I tried to help.”

“Of course you did,” Porthos murmured. “You always fight bravely.”

“Not fighting. There was... by the time I was… the fight was already over. Afterwards. I tried to help.”

“That’s good.” Porthos really didn’t think it was a good idea to talk about this now, but he’d follow Aramis' lead.

“Their wounds... I bandaged... I wanted to stitch. I... I didn’t see... I didn’t know...”

“Shhh,” Porthos said, feeling Aramis’ agitation. “You’re safe now.”

“They were all dead, Porthos,” Aramis said. “I bandaged the dead.”

Porthos’ heart seemed to stop. Images flashed in front of his mind. Aramis in the forest. Aramis moving from corpse to corpse, trying to help. Aramis realising that he was too late, that all was lost. His throat constricted. Aramis...

“Thank you,” he finally said. “For doing that for our brothers... for Laurent.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Aramis said. From the waver in his voice Porthos guessed he was crying again. He drew Aramis closer against his body and tightened his embrace.

“You did everything,” he said. Aramis breathed out heavily. With the air, the tension seemed to leave his body. Slowly, he melted into Porthos’ arms.

“You’re safe now,” Porthos breathed into his ear.

“I know,” Aramis whispered.

Porthos sighed contentedly.

“Good night, Aramis.”

                                            


End file.
